Ravissante's Naughty Picture - The Last Best West

Northern Alberta, April 12, 1897.

Socrates picked his way cautiously through the patches of mud that dotted the frozen ground. Wasey'd given the horse its name in the hopes it'd make the stallion smarter and of course it hadn't worked.

The Appaloosa was as cantankerous as a drunk away from the bottle, and the only thing saving Wasey from a battle with the ornery animal was the tight going of the forest. There were still pockets of chest deep snow and when they hit those, he strapped on the snowshoes and led the pack.

Wasey had to break trail yesterday and that bugger Socrates balked when he tried to pull the horse through a snow drift. Wasey landed on his ass in the snow and Socrates bolted back up the path, dragging Mud and Bim - his two mules - snorting and braying along. That was just a few days before, and today wasn't much better.

"Yer too much work," he reckoned, surprised by the sound of his voice. The stallion was barely three years old, maybe a mite young for what he was expecting, but it was time to work him into his main horse. If he'd left him back in Peace River Town for the months he was trapping, the horse's training would have suffered.

"If'n this past winter hasn't taught yer any calmness, then 'perhaps next winter will. . .hard ta believe yer yer father's son." Socrates was a powerful animal, maybe the strongest he'd rode, now if he only had half a lick of his pa's sense.

Socrates had to be rode taunt; with a straight back and your thighs in tight on the stallion's stomach. And above all; a tight rein. You run a slack rein with Socrates and he'll terrorize you no end.

"Yer'll learn or I'll sell you, by God." He knew he never would, hard head or not, Socrates was a hell of a horse and Wasey supposed that was the tradeoff. When the stallion wasn't hobbled by a forest and trailing mules he was a joyful sight. With an open plain under his hoofs he covered ground at a staggering rate. And when he cantered, he pranced as pretty as the prettiest girl at the box social.

Wasey popped off his hat and wiped his brow. Stuck in the hatband was a picture of his wife reclining on a rich sheet with big pillows. He liked to stick it in his hatband on travel days to remind him what waited at home, and he pushed himself even harder, if that was possible.

Ravissante was the best thing that ever happened to him, and she let him know it, regularly. Not in any mean way, but by doing things like getting this picture taken, and giving it to him two Christmases ago, when he came from his trapline

Last winter was the first time he'd trapped, after eight years as a Northwest Mounted Policeman, and Ravissante was mad at him for leaving her for the winter, even though she knew why he did it. Ravissante had wants and needs and expectations, and because she came from a wealthy family they were loftier than most.

Last December when he journeyed back to Peace River Town to spend Christmas with her and her uncle's family, her temper still hadn't cooled, and that's when she gave him the photograph. . .laying back on what looked to be velvet sheets and cushions, with an unbelievable smile, and no clothes. Not even a slip, or a shammy, even a towel would have been something. But no, she would be naked, just to torment him. Remind him of her tempestuous beauty and her sultry French accent.When he first held the picture his mouth had fallen open, unwilling to believe what he was looking at. When he finally found his voice he demanded to know who the rogue was, that took this picture, and he'd better be an old man, because he'd be dead before another moon changed.

"Oh-poor Wasey" Ravissante replied, "If you were any kind of man, you wouldn't leave your beautiful wife alone, for months at a time, to find mischief."

He was still trying to control his anger, but unable to take his eyes off the picture when she'd brushed up against him and let her hand slide between his legs. "Bon," she'd giggled, "Treis Bien, this is why I give it to you, Wasey Bruce, I know my husband very well." She'd smiled saucily at him, "And on dose cold, blizzardy, nights in your cabin, you will view dis picture and dank me, and forget all about da funny little man dat took it."

A smile lingered on his face and a tightness in his britches as he put his hat back on. Wasey knew it was all just a game to her, to keep their passion bright and dang if it didn't work, but she drove him to distraction with her contradictions.

A moment later he had to pull back on the reins as Socrates, suddenly, pranced five yards down the path, ignoring the slipperiness of the trail. Wasey reined him in, and watched a terrified snow shoe rabbit bolt from under some snowy brush, making for the ridge. Wasey reached for his gun and squeezed off a shot that sent the rabbit tumbling down the hogback, dead. There you go, he thought, supper.

This is an excerpt from Chapter Five of The Last Best West by Longfellow Deeds. Copyrite © 2002 All rights Reserved. No portion or part maybe reproduced by any physical, mechanical or electronic means.
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